Weekend With the Grandson

 Pam and I spent this past weekend with our grandson and his parents. Yes, he wore us out. But it’s the very best kind of exhaustion. The occasion for this particular visit was Halloween but we don’t need much of an excuse to make the trip to South Carolina. We keep up with his life mostly through a video sharing app called Marco Polo and we are eternally grateful for this technological gift. But every three to four weeks we start getting antsy to actually see him, to hold him in our arms. Luckily for us, his parents are on board with our visits. We try to make it worth their while by doing lots of chores.

Because we only see him once a month we notice the changes more so than Kaitlin and Jon do. He’s getting bigger, more mobile, and much more expressive. His personality is flowering right before our eyes. His speaking vocabulary is growing exponentially, but the number of words he can understand has skyrocketed over the past couple of months.

On two separate occasions over the weekend I was the beneficiary of being nap-trapped. The first time was somewhere around 9:30 in the morning. I had been reading him some books in the rocking chair in his room when I noticed that he was starting to feel heavier. When I glanced down at his little face I saw his eye lashes lying softly on his cheeks. He was sound asleep. The nap lasted 40 minutes. As it wore on my back got tighter and tighter, my hamstrings closer and closer to cramp level… but there was no chance in the world that I was going to give up such an opportunity. The warmth of him, that enchanting smell of a child, the complete peace that comes over a person holding a sleeping 17 month old is a gift like no other.

The second time came after an unsuccessful afternoon nap which ended prematurely and was accompanied by quite a bit of fussiness. His Dad took him outside for a walk in the cool air. It helped. When I showed up he reached out to me to hold him. I continued the walk that Jon had started. Then I walked up on the porch and sat down in one of the rocking chairs. Within five minutes he had settled on my chest, fast asleep. An entire hour passed. By the time he finally stirred I was sore all over, but as contented as I have ever been.

Here’s the thing…we live in a dangerous world. Nothing in this life comes with a guarantee. This mortal plane is filled with danger and disease. But when you are holding a sleeping child in your arms, nothing bad can touch you—or him.

The rest of our weekend was filled with wonderful experiences at a park, Chick-Fil-A, Trick or Treating in Elmwood, and a special Halloween dinner featuring Kaitlin’s famous Graveyard  enchilada dip, Pam’s homemade S’mores Lattes and a weird veggie tray that looked like a skeleton. Super fun.

Time to be an Adult

 Now that my Maine vacations are over I am once more faced with the mundane demands of being an adult. I must resume being responsible. I once again have chores. Over the coming weeks I will be expected to cut my grass and show up for my volunteer shifts at Hope. I will be required to take my recycling to the curb, fix the air conditioning in my car, and pay my bills in full and on time. 

I will also be expected to show up for my big dental appointment next Wednesday morning at 8:00. Since I have already paid the entire bill for this two appointment nightmare in advance, I am less likely to not show up, although where dentistry is involved there are no guarantees.

I am also presented with the very adult difficulty of shedding the seven pounds I gained while in Maine. With the passage of time, losing weight has become problematic. Metabolism changes have made my past weight loss strategies worthless. I fear that a more successful strategy will require me to actually eat less delicious food, in other words, more vegetables and less bacon. More leafy greens and less ice cream. More broth and less bread. This is a dreadful prospect, something I’m looking forward to even less than the upcoming election.

But, here we are.

On the positive side, Pam and I are heading down to South Carolina in a couple days to spend Halloween with our grandson. Silas and his parents will have costumes with a fireman/firefighter theme. Pam and I decided to dress up as the fire that they are trying to put out. Pam ordered our cool fire shirts and hair on fire head-wear while we were in Maine. They came in the mail yesterday. I have dubbed us the “hot grands.”

Saying Our Goodbyes

 This will be my last post from Maine until some time in July of 2027. We leave tomorrow morning coming home. In 2026 we were fortunate enough to spend six weeks here back in the summer and another three weeks for our Fall visit. This is a tremendous blessing that we never take for granted.

Today we drove into Camden for a last breakfast in town. Then we’ve spent most of the day packing everything up, cleaning up after ourselves as we go. The wind has been blowing hard today on the lake, from the north making it feel like it’s in the middle 40’s. Tonight we will make a potluck meal after what we have left in the fridge, watch an episode or two of our favorite show at the moment—Shetland, then we will settle in for the first game of the World Series, a wonderful way to spend our last night in this magical place.

Over the past three weeks I’ve managed to read three books, write a couple of chapters of the latest one I’m working on, and put together two challenging puzzles. I’ve kayaked and fished, taken plenty of invigorating walks and eaten some fabulous food. But mostly what Pam and I have been doing is riding around gawking at the stunning Fall foliage all around us. I’ve attached two photographs to this post, the first of which is one that Pam took this morning of a tree right at the entrance to the lake on Pond Road. Despite it being the 23rd of October, and our part of the State being beyond the peak season, this particular tree continues to wow us every time we drive past.

The second picture is of a tiny structure on Moody Mountain Road, maybe three or four miles from the lake. I’ve passed it a couple dozen times over the years and have always been both intrigued and fascinated by the place. Its stands there in a field, isolated and mysterious. There are no other structures near by. There are no power lines attached. And bizarrely there isn’t a path that leads to or away from the road. No signs of any vehicle ever having visited, not even a discernable footpath. It just sits there surrounded by an unplowed field, its purpose unknown. One little window, a narrow stoop in front of a snappy yellow door. Although it’s small, it is handsomely constructed. Whoever built it took care to produce something attractive. But for what purpose? If you were so inclined, you could write a story about a tiny structure like this. 

Yes, I think so…

UHIP’s and the Ubiquitous Decorative Skeleton

 I am a Virginian. Although my heritage is something I am mostly proud of, I can freely admit that my home state has plenty of quirks. First of all there’s that ridiculous First Families of Virginia nonsense, the Country Club of Virginia crowd who get under my skin. Then there’s the whole northern Virginia/beltway people who have virtually nothing in common with the rest of the state. Most Virginians consider anything north of Fredericksburg as greater DC. But other than that Virginia was a gorgeous place to grow up and still remains a terrific place to live.

When it comes to Maine my general rule has always been to never speak ill of a place where you are a guest. It is not the job of the state of Maine to accommodate me—it’s my job to accommodate the state of Maine when I come here to visit 8-9 weeks every year. One of the reasons I love this place so much is because it’s not like home. I love the fact that there are so few national chain stores/restaurants in Maine. I love that every time you need something it’s a 25 minute drive and that the roads are almost always two-lane with no lines. However, having declared my love for this place for the entire 16 year history of this blog—it is also true that Maine has its share of quirks. There are two that come to mind.

One thing that Ive noticed over the past 40 years of coming up here is the ubiquitous existence of what I will refer to with an acronym—UHIP—unfinished home improvement projects. They are literally everywhere. Some guy decides to replace the siding on his house in the summer of 2023. By 2025 the Tyvec is up and about a third of the siding is completed. By 2026 it’s like the guy says, “Screw it. That’s enough.” Or some guy decides to build an addition or a new free-standing shed in his back yard. Five years goes by and it’s still a work in very slow progress, the studs of the future wall already an aged gray. Try this in Virginia and your neighbors would have taken you to court after three weeks of inactivity! If some of my local Mainers can explain the UHIP phenomenon I would appreciate it.

The second quirk is something relatively new. By new I mean…this is the first year we’ve noticed it. Maybe it’s because we are up here later than we have ever been so Halloween is right around the corner. In Virginia, we take a back seat to nobody when it comes to decorating for the Trick or Treat season. But in Maine there’s something unique…the decorative Skeleton. I am not exaggerating, they are everywhere. Small ones and, more often than not, huge seven foot ones! Yesterday Pam and I walked in to the Walgreen’s in Camden and right at the entrance was a display of skeletons for sale—at a Drug Store. It was here when we discovered that that gigantic seven foot ones I was talking about cost $129! And, this decorative skeleton craze is not a rich man/poor man thing. We see them in front of beat up shacks out in the country and also in the front yards of some of the finest homes on the coast. Not just human skeletons either, there are dog and cat skeletons too. In the front yards of a gorgeous home in Camden there is a full scale football game being played, two teams, referees and cheerleaders too—every one of the participants skeletons. It blew our minds.

Our 2026 time in Maine is rapidly coming to an end. In a couple days we will be on the road back home to the Old Dominion. We are already thinking about next year’s adventure in this fabulous place.

What a Day

 Today there was a splendid sunrise from across the lake. The sky and water were fire orange. I walked down to the dock to try and capture it with only partial success. In just a few minutes it will be pouring down rain. But yesterday was one for the ages.

The weather forecast for yesterday was fabulously wrong, which happens often up here. It was supposed to be cloudy all day. Instead the sun blared defiantly, the sky and water brilliant blue with just an occasional wispy cloud overhead. The high temperature was 53 I think, but it felt colder because the wind blew all day. So what did we do? 

My day started with a 4 mile walk. When I got back to the house I saw my wife sitting down on the dock, wrapped up in a sweatshirt and hoodie. The lake was ablaze in yellow sparkles. The sun was delightfully warm but each gust of wind brought a chill. I went up to the house and brought her a windbreaker to take the edge off because she was going nowhere. Despite the chill, it was all just too beautiful to resist.

Around 11:30 we drove into Camden. There was a mission. We had an actual plan for a change, which was to pick up a lunch order we had placed at Camden Deli then take it to the shoreline trail at Camden Hills State Park where we would have a picnic, after which we would head up to Mount Battie for some picture taking. Unfortunately for us—and for the very first time in our collective memories, the park was closed to all vehicles. In addition, the traffic in and around Camden was worse than we have ever seen, even in the middle of the summer. The line of cars waiting to climb Mt. Battie stretched nearly to Route 1. It would be a day where we had to adjust to the reality that being in a hurry was out of the question. We would have to relax and enjoy the gorgeous weather. And…did we ever!

We have been on Mount Battie probably at least 30 times over the years but never in such crystal clear conditions. None of the photographs we took were true to the moment. But we kept taking them. Then we decided that if we couldn’t drive our car down to the picnic tables near the shoreline trail we would just walk. Totally worth it. But by the time we made it back to our car my hips were in complete revolt. Now I was up to seven miles since daybreak.

The final part of the day’s mission involved a trip to Bleeker and Greer, a very bougie, boutique-style grocery store to which we had been given a generous gift card by our Son and Daughter-in-law. Our goal was to buy ingredients for a charcuterie board dinner. This was accomplished with much angst and indecision brought on in no small part by the existence of small, hockey puck sized circles of cheese which cost $19. There was a small box of sea salt crackers selling for $16.99. It felt like highway robbery, but we had a gift card. The resulting feast made me overcome my buyers remorse.

Then, we all settled down and watched the Milwaukee Brewers sweep the mighty Dodgers out of the playoffs. What an amazing day.

No matter how many times I come here I have never lost the overwhelming sense of gratitude I feel that I am able to do this every year. I take none of this for granted. Life comes at us fast. We have no guarantee of anything. All of this could be taken from us in less than an instant. So each year we are grateful. Each year we give thanks for the privilege of being here.

A Morning on Ragged Mountain

Woke up this morning at 6:30 which is the same time I wake up every morning up here. That’s the time when the rising sun starts reflecting off the lake, splashing light up the hill and through the trees into our bedroom. It also happens to be the only time of day when my rear end isn’t throbbing so I get up to remind myself of what normal feels like. I make coffee and stare out at the lake. It’s still this morning with some fog skimming across the surface of the water from north to south. I check the temperature and notice that the first number is a 3. I sneak back into the bedroom and throw on some layers. The lake looks fishy this morning. I’m thinking I might get lucky. Haven’t caught much of anything so far. First of all the lake is at least 8 inches low and grassy. But the real reason I haven’t caught much is that in my present state, sitting in a kayak for more than 45 minutes or so is too painful, so I’m limited. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Looks like we will be getting some much needed rain from Monday thru Wednesday, after which the high temperatures will be in the upper 40’s. There’s actually an outside chance for a bit of snow next Sunday. So we will be taking advantage of today’s benign forecast by taking the fall foliage ski-lift ride at the Camden Snow bowl. The views from the top of the mountain are magnificent, featuring lake views, gorgeous fall colors and the Penobscot Bay and the Atlantic in the distance.

I didn’t get lucky. But after twenty minutes or so of casting off the end of the dock I was freezing cold. The locals will laugh at this claim. Most of them are still wearing shorts!

After an insignificant make-do breakfast we arrived at the Snow bowl at the advertised starting time of 10:00 am only to find the parking lot nearly full. This is the first time we have ever done this excursion on the Columbus Day holiday weekend. The advantage of the late date was a spectacular leaf viewing experience. The disadvantage wasn’t made known to us until we returned to the ski-lift after our hike to the top of Ragged mountain. That’s when we saw the long snaking line of leaf-peepers standing in line to take the ski-lift down the mountain. Our wait turned out to be 55 minutes in falling temperatures. But because this is America we happens to be standing in line next to a couple who were making their first trip to Maine. When we asked them where they were from they said, “Hawaii…” The husband worked for the cable company on the Big Island. The wife was a twenty year employee of the Hawaii Teachers Union, which explains the fabulous tax-deductible trip from Honolulu to Camden Maine for a “meeting.” Yet another example of how I went into the wrong business. I don’t begrudge them the trip seeing as how they have been hit with three hurricanes in less than six months back home. God bless them.

Now tonight we are about ready for dinner and an evening of Los Angeles Dodger hatred. 

Go Brewers!!!

Taking the Bitter With the Sweet

 Our fall trip to Maine has so far been both chilly and gorgeous. The leaves are beautiful. The lake glistens in the bright sunshine, despite being at the lowest levels in memory. Haven’t caught any fish yet but honestly it’s been quite cold and windy, so haven’t had as many opportunities. Instead we’ve been out and about checking out a couple new places of interest, specifically the Fort Point lighthouse with its 130 year old fog bell and apple orchard. Lovely.

Each evening has been dominated by October baseball. Last night there was bitterness mixed with the sweet. First, the Braves got eliminated by the baseball equivalent of the Avengers, the collection of future Hall-of-famers known as the Los Angeles Dodgers, who are roughly halfway through their streak of winning what will probably be four or five consecutive World Series titles. On the flip side we were treated to the delicious sweep of the New York Yankees from the post season by the Tampa Bay Rays, with the invaluable assistance of that typically obnoxious and clueless Yankee fan who just HAD to reach over into the field of play to interfere with a baseball in flight, denying his team two runs. I’m thinking of started a GoFundMe page for the guy for his selfish contribution to the game. Because of this guy’s moronic action baseball fans everywhere will be spared having to watch Jazz Chisholm play the game for at least six more months. I mean, can you even put a price on that?

Now, all that is left for the majority of baseball lovers around the world is to morph into newly minted Milwaukee Brewer fans. Yes, just as it was with cheering for the Rays, we’ll have to put up with the preening, look-at-me histrionics whenever one of them hits a home-run, where a trip around the bases becomes a three act play involving chest-pounding dance moves, conversations aimed skyward towards dead relatives, and various levels of hip gyrations that would make Beyoncé blush. But it will all be worth it if the Dodgers somehow lose. One coastal elite team down…one to go.

Tonight we will be having dinner at the incomparable Fresh & Co. in Camden. The temperature is projected to be 58 degrees, the skies clear. The hardest decision of the trip thus far will be whether to eat outside or inside. The outdoor seating offers many benefits not the least of which is the delightful opportunities for people watching. But whether inside or out, our meal will be amazing because it always is.

Arrived in Maine!

 It was a two-day trip, the first leg through rain to the Ulysses Hotel in downtown Baltimore to attend my nephew’s wedding. Then yesterday morning we left the hotel at 6:30 in a driving mist to make the eleven hour drive to Maine. Because of my bum bum, this journey required more stops than usual. By the time we made it to the lake I was a mess. But, the er…bottom line is that we made it safe and sound. It is currently noon and the temperature is 59 degrees. The leaves are beautiful. Pam is planning on making soup for dinner. Meanwhile I will continue my search for a better way to…sit.

Coastal Maine continues to be in a drought. In all my years on Quantabacook I have never seen the lake this low. I searched back through my old photographs to find one of the dam in a normal year. Placing that photo next to the one I took this morning was startling. Hope they get lots of snow this winter.

While I was out fishing this morning I took a couple pictures of the leaves. Three weeks of this will do quite nicely.

Half the Battle is Just Showing Up

 It takes two full days of prep work before leaving for Maine. Yesterday my to-do list was formidable. The first item on the agenda was to take Pam’s car to my local Jiffy-Lube for an oil change.

I arrived at 8:05 hoping to be first in line since the place opens for business at 8:00. I was. The only problem being that there was only one other car in the parking lot, each bay door was closed and the entire enterprises looked abandoned. Finally, a 300 pound giant of a man stumbled out of the office door wearing a tent-sized Jiffy-Lube polo shirt that looked like it had spent several weeks at the bottom of a large pile of dirty mechanic hand towels. He shuffled slowly towards my car as I rolled down the window.

“You guys open?” I asked.

“Yeah…well, we open at 8 o’clock.” He offered.

“It’s 8:08 right now so, are we good?” 

At no point of this abbreviated exchange had this gargantuan individual looked directly at me. His eyes seemed committed to scanning the Wendy’s parking lot next door. After an awkward silence he offered a frank analysis of the situation.

“Yeah…well, nobody’s showed up for work yet.”

At this point something going on in the Walmart parking lot grabbed his attention. I pressed on…

“When does that normally happen?” I asked.

“What?”

“When do the workers usually show up?”

“Hard to say. Maybe in a few minutes, maybe a little later.”

This insight seemed to exhaust his thoughts on the subject since he turned around and slouched back inside the office.

Unfortunately, this sort of thing stopped surprising me years ago. My days of being appalled at horrendous customer service ended at roughly the same time as the arrival of self-checkout at the grocery store. Luckily, this is 2026, so I whipped out my cell phone, Googled oil change shops near me, and fifteen minutes later I was being taken care of by the employees of Valvoline Instant Oil Change who thankfully did me the courtesy of showing up for work.

So kids, when you hear old guys saying stuff like—In life half the battle is just showing up—this is what they mean.

My Latest Grand-Parenting Fail

 The photograph that accompanies this post is the site of my most recent grand-parenting mishap. This past weekend we had the privilege of accompanying Silas and his parents to this very cool pumpkin farm place which was an absolute blast. There were so many cool play stations for kids of all ages. Strewn all across the place was a series of slides, but the one in this photograph was the boss. For reasons that still aren’t completely clear, when I saw this tower and the very fun looking slide I found myself walking up the tower with Silas. I must here confess that I hadn’t asked either of his parents their permission. For some reason no one tried to stop us so there we were at the top readying ourselves for the descent, Silas secure in my lap.

It was so great! We were flying down the chute, Silas giggling adorably. I remember thinking, “Man we are really going fast!” Then suddenly we emerged from the giant black corrugated plastic shoot into the bright sunshine at which time I was suddenly made aware of one major miscalculation. This particular slide had not been designed for grownups. The average weight of paying customers was probably somewhere around 40 pounds, not the combined 230 pounds that was racing along merrily to the bottom. When we broke through into the bright sunshine I realized that there was a three inch drop off at the end of the slide, the landing area being a hard surface with zero padding. As soon as I made contact I knew I had made a mistake. The sharp piercing pain in my tailbone was immediate and intense. Of course I hopped up, and handing my delighted grandson to his Mom, declaring the slide a raging success…but I knew that the damage had been done. 

Now, four days later, I am walking with great care and discovering a variety of new and novel ways to sit to reduce the pain. I am hoping that by Saturday when we head to Maine the pain will have run its course. A fourteen hour drive is not the sort of thing it is wise to attempt when one’s ass is on the disabled list.

So…once again a trip to spend time with my grandson has resulted in collateral damage, exactly the sort of thing I feared might happen when I became a grandparent at such an advanced age. This time I also picked up a 36 hour stomach bug, a miserable souvenir from our otherwise wonderful weekend. 

But, all is well. The little boy is the light of our lives. His parents are killing it and we are counting the days until Halloween.

$45,000 a gallon. Gas? No…eye drops

 This morning I once again will revisit my life long fascination with how much things cost. What exactly is it that determines the price of something? I know all about the laws of scarcity, of supply and demand pressures. Still when I encounter a surprising price point for something it always baffles me. Take this for example…

I recently developed a slight infection in one of my eyes. I visited my optometrist of choice who said it was a minor thing that could be cleared up with a three day course of a special eyedrop that she promised to call in to my pharmacy. When I picked up the very, very tiny container at CVS later that day I noticed that the bottle contained a mere 2.5 mili-liters of the cure for my eye problem. To put this in perspective…a gallon contains roughly 3,800 mile-liters. We are talking a splash of eyedrops here, in a bottle that was smaller than my pinky. So, when the friendly pharmacist announced that I owed him $29.75 I was astonished. I immediately started thinking of all the stuff I could buy for $29.75. The list was long and impressive. But my eye was hurting so I paid the man.

Then I started doing that thing I do when something baffles me. I sat in the parking lot…thinking. On my way to CVS I had stopped by a service station to fill up my tank with gas, the price of which has been all over the news of late. I paid a whopping $4.19 a gallon. Just a few years ago that same gallon would have cost around $2.75. But as I sat in the parking lot of CVS I started doing some math and discovered if the eyedrops I had just purchased was sold by the gallon—it would have cost $45,000!!!

Then I did some more thinking.

To get that gallon of gas to that service station pump, Somebody had to suck up crude oil from the depths of the earth where more often than not the drilling attempt fails. The labor involved in finding and then pumping that crude up from the earth is crazy dangerous and expensive. But that’s just the beginning. Once it’s pumped to the surface it has to be transported to a refinery somewhere. That refinery was built ages ago at great expense and the cost of its continued operation is immense. Once the crude oil is refined, it must then be loaded onto great tankers and shipped across vast oceans at great expense to ports where it is then transferred onto 18-wheel trucks that drive it across the country at great expense to filling stations great and small so that a guy like me can pull up, lift a pump handle and fill my gas tank up, all the while bitching and moaning at the ridiculous price of gasoline.

But, what of the people who provided me with this tiny 2.5 mili-liter container of eyedrops? Somebody, or more likely a machine tool, had to mix the three ingredients together, shake it up, then insert it into a mini plastic container with a child-proof top, slap a tiny label on the little container, place it in a tiny box and ship it to my CVS, after which they would call it a day and meet up for drinks at the local Buffalo Wild Wings.

When I brought this up later to Pam she listened politely then said, “Aren’t you glad you live in a world where instead of losing sight in your eye because of an infection, you can pay thirty bucks and be cured?”

This is what she does…she listens to my unhinged harangues and shuts them down with truth bombs.

But…$45,000 a gallon for eye drops?

Today’s Grievance

 Every now and then I feel the need to write a post about something that annoys me, a personal grievance I harbor in my worst moments. It’s a minor irritant at best but that doesn’t mean it’s not super annoying. Here goes…

Most days during my retirement I make the drive from my house in Short Pump to Hope Cafe. It’s a 6 mile trip down Pump Road and Patterson Avenue. I usually make this drive around 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. If you are familiar with this drive you know that both Pump and Patterson are four lane, divided highways. The traffic is never bad, some days busier than others, but never bumper to bumper. The speed limits vary along this route from 25 mph in the Godwin school zone to 55 mph when you cross into Goochland County on Patterson.

At this point it is only fair to mention that I’m not exactly what anyone would call a cautious driver. I have always viewed speed limit signs as suggestions. Generally speaking this means when I see a sign that says 45, I’m usually going 52. Nothing egregious mind you. (We won’t talk about my average cruising speed on the interstate going to Maine.)

What I am about to describe happens every single day, without exception. If it was an occasional annoyance I could just chalk it up to chance. No, this is an epidemic. At least twice per trip the following situation plays out…

I’ll be driving along minding my own business at a 52-55 mph clip when I will notice a line of cars tapping their brakes in the lane ahead of me. Then I will watch several of them swerving into the right lane. What’s the problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is—there’s some moron going 30 mph in the left lane!! Are they in the left lane because they are about to make a left hand turn? Noooo. They simply prefer the left lane, the passing lane for their meandering. When I finally am able to pull up along side the offender I already know what I will find. 95% of the time it is an octogenarian, eyes barely peering over the steering wheel which they have in a death grip. It is more often than not a woman, only because I imagine there are far more octogenarian female drivers than male since they outlive us. When this happens—again, EVERY MORNING—I must reign in my indignation. I was always taught to respect my elders and one day I will be an octogenarian motorist, which I’m sure is going to terrify my adult children. But if that happens I will probably be like my grandfather who had his driver’s license taken away at age 85 because he was clocked going his age the wrong way down route 29!!

But, this isn’t even the worst part about this business. Yes, the older drivers are super annoying. But the worst is when you pull up along side the moron in question and discover that it’s not Granny Bluehair. No, it’s a 30 year old working the steering wheel with his knees so he can devote both hands to the typing of a super important text message that can’t possibly wait. I would like to be able to say that when I am presented with this particular scenario, I maintain my composure, remembering that I am a Christian man who has been taught to love his neighbor since I was a child. Unfortunately, I have been known to attempt to start a conversation with people like this by using the turned up palm gesture, a horrified facial expression and shouting, “DUDE!!!!!?????”

Yeah…so that’s my personal grievance for the day.

The Dentist. You Can Run But You Can’t Hide.

 Long time readers of this space know of my strained relationship with the dental sciences. In September of 2016 I wrote a series of four posts on the subject, which many of you found hilarious although I was not trying to be funny! As it turns out that was my last visit—until a couple weeks ago. Why did I go back? Did I have a toothache? Was I experiencing mouth pain of any kind? NO. What I was experiencing was guilt. What kind of grown man doesn’t go to the dentist for ten years in a row? Although I brush and floss every single day like I’m supposed to, going to the dentist at least once a year for a proper cleaning is universally understood to be a best practice. So, there I was at the dentist’s office for my once a decade cleaning, sweating like a whore in church. 

“Oh, I see that it’s been ten years since we got x-rays,” the hygienist mentioned gleefully. 

Next thing I know she’s shoving something huge in my mouth and asking me to try to be still. It was a big ask. My inaugural dental experience happened on the campus of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary when I was seven years old. It involved dental students, the kind of experience that provided a lifetime worth of trauma, and made the administration of nitrous oxide an absolute must for any future dental procedure, even simple cleanings. Dentistry remains the one great exception of my life. I have always been a person who lacks a proper level of fear. It used to drive my mother crazy. I would do dangerous things all the time without a proper appreciation of the risks. Very few things scare me which is not a function of excess bravery as much as it is an oversupply of stupidity. But when it comes to the prospect of strapping myself into a dentist chair for an hour I am transformed into a whimpering coward. So, a couple weeks ago I was kinda proud of myself for taking the step to revisit the sights, smells and emotional torture of the dental professionals at Inspired Smiles.

I knew full well what the results would be of allowing new X-rays to be taken. Ten years of neglect would reveal itself in the form of a suggestion that I come back in two weeks for a “consultation only visit” whereby the full extent of the damage would be discussed and a “game plan of action” would be offered. That meeting was yesterday. Because I am famous for  forgetting every single word a doctor/dentist says to me as soon as I get in my car to drive home—Pam came with me. As we were guided up a flight of stairs to our palatial consultation appointment room I told her that it reminded me of all the times I was called to the principal’s office back in school.

The room was tastefully decorated and strangely calming and the first thought that went through my head when I sat down on the soft and comfortable sofa was, “Damn, I bet you’ve got to pull a boatload of teeth to pay for a room like this!”

The news wasn’t all bad. There would be no “extractions” in my “game plan of action.” But I would need some crowns and several fillings, and since my dental back story was so troubled, sedation would be employed. As the competent and compassionate professionals explained everything to me I began making mental calculations—how much is this gonna set me back?

I don’t have dental insurance…and never have had dental insurance. Medicare doesn’t cover dental, so I knew this was coming out of my pocket. So, I started to add up stuff in my head. A figure came to mind. When the final number was announced it was exactly double—this was going to be a five figure “game plan of action”, which I suppose if you divided it by the ten years I boycotted Inspired Smiles, is about what going to the dentist every six months would have cost. But this way I would only be terrorized once instead of twice a year for ten years. 

It seems like a good bargain to me.

The First Three Weeks of October

 The middle of September is when I begin scanning the 10-day weather forecasts for Camden, Maine. We will be spending the first three weeks of October at the lake in Searsmont. This morning when I checked, the high temperature for the next 10 days was in the 60’s with lows between the upper 40’s and low 50’s.

Fall in Maine is a completely different world than the summer. For one thing by October many businesses on the coast have shut down. Even though the leaf-peepers crowd comes, the traffic is much less than the summer months. The worst thing about the Fall trip is that most of the ice cream shops have closed. But most of our favorite shops and restaurants are still open and it’s awfully nice not having to fight for a parking space on Main Street.

It’s the leaves that make it special. The lake becomes lined with bright colors of orange, red and yellow.. On clear mornings the colors reflect off the water and it’s often hard to tell what’s real and what is a reflection. When I’m out fishing in the kayak I’ll see a lone red leaf floating past me and no matter how many times I’ve seen them, it still makes me smile.

We spend less time on the lake in the Fall, not because it’s not delightful, but because there are so many festivals to attend, orchards to explore and hikes to take. One year Pam and I decided to make the 6 mile round trip walk from Camden harbor to Rockport, a trek that hugged the coastline almost the entire way. It was in the middle 50’s that day with bright sunshine. It might have been the best single day we have ever spent in Maine—although the hike featured both of us taking a spill along the way. Luckily neither of us were hurt, and each fall prompted the other to laugh out loud! 

Another wonderful difference between summer Maine and fall Maine is that in the fall each night there’s a fire. I can’t count the number of times we have snuggled up on the couch, fire blazing in the fireplace watching October baseball. Nothing in this world is better than that.

So for the first three weeks of October we will spend all of our money in Mid-Coast Maine. We will immerse ourselves in the created beauty all round us. We will drive all the backroads of Waldo, Knox and Lincoln counties marveling at the colors. We will eat like Kings. We will break out our long sleeve shirts and long pants. And, we will be grateful for every day we get to live in such a place.

Grandparent’s Day

 Several weeks ago our daughter told us that there was a Grandparent’s Day planned at Silas’ daycare whereby grandparents were invited to join their grandchild for a special lunch time together. Would we be interested in participating, she asked. Are you kidding? Of course we would. We immediately made plans to make the six hour drive down the night before, then show up at the event, after which we would be allowed to take him home for the weekend. Neither of us has been to St. Andrew’s Daycare. We’ve seen pictures of Silas doing various things there but we don’t know his teachers or any of the other kids in his class. We were thrilled at the prospect.

Yes…we didn’t think twice about making a six hour drive to spend thirty minutes eating lunch with our grandchild. Would it be easier if we lived closer? Yes. But just because something isn’t easy doesn’t mean you don’t do it.

Then, I get sick with whatever the hell it is that I have, and despite our best efforts, Pam now has some form of the same affliction. The result of this unhappy situation is that we will not be able to make it to Grandparent’s Day. Pam waited until yesterday to break the news. She explained the situation via text. I read the text while sitting in the sun of the patio at Hope Church. It was then that the strangest thing happened. All of a sudden I found myself fighting back tears. I mean, I was by myself on the patio, trying to figure out what was wrong. This is new territory for me. I’m not a cryer. I never cried when my kids were born. When my Mom passed away I didn’t shed a tear until six months later while on a treadmill at the Marriott Hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

Here’s what happened. As soon as I read Pam’s text a vision popped into my head. I saw a group of toddlers sitting on picnic blankets surrounded by grandparents on the green astroturf of St. Andrew’s play area…and off to the side there was Silas all alone. The image devastated me. What I didn’t know was that at that very moment Pam was having the same vision and was just as heartbroken as I was. Thankfully a few minutes later our daughter replied that she 100% understood and for us not to feel bad because Jon had decided he would meet Silas for lunch on that day so he wouldn't be alone. This news came as a tremendous relief to us both.

It wasn’t until later that I thought of how ridiculous we were being. Silas is only 15 months old. When he grows up he will have absolutely zero memory of a random lunch date in 2026. The fact that his grandparents weren’t there with him won’t even register in his consciousness. So, why did the thought of not being there for him bring such instant and deep despair? Honestly, I don’t know. It feels silly now that a day or so has passed. But as it was happening it was as real an emotion as I have ever felt, something close to a fear of letting him down.

The list of things over which I have no control is long and forbidding. Pam and I will have limited influence in Silas’ life. He’s just beginning, we are closer to the end than the beginning. But there are things over which I do have control. I can make sure that when there’s a special event—we are there. If he’s ever in a play or has a game, if there’s a party, if he is graduating from something—we will be there. You just can’t miss the occasion, the assembly, the celebration.

Or…grandparent’s day.

Health is Wealth

 Over a week ago in this space I told you of waking up feeling nasty after a trip to see our grandson. Nine days on, two Patient First trips, and six prescriptions later I’m still feeling nasty. For the past three days I have had no voice. After my first visit to PF produced no improvement I went back four days later where a younger, cockier physician said I had pneumonia and wrote two new remedies for me to try. But then 24 hours later I received a follow up call back from a friendly and upbeat nurse informing me that upon further study of my X-Ray the house radiologist determined that it was not, in fact, pneumonia. In the meantime I continue to be hounded my a relentless cough that has produced enough vile phlegm to fill a large Py-Rex mixing bowl.

The worst part of this ordeal is the memories that have come with it. The cough is exponentially worse at night which does two things. First it makes getting a decent night’s sleep impossible. You wake up every hour on the hour from all the coughing, your entire chest and throat on fire and wracked by soreness—which brings me to the bad memories part. It was 23 years ago when a similar relentless nighttime cough ended up sending me to the hospital for emergency open heart surgery. A guy never forgets something like that. So, when I wake up at 2:15 with a pounding headache coughing my lungs off, I’m right back at St. Mary’s all over again for about two minutes until I snap out of it.

This morning at 4:17 I can report some progress. The volume of coughing is far less than it was two or three days ago. At night I’m sleeping two hours between waking up instead of one. I’m not as sore as I’ve been—maybe because I’ve gotten all my coughing muscles in great shape from the brutal workout load. I’ve been asked to return to PF for a follow up X-Ray either today or tomorrow, I forget which.

Pam and I have kept a safe distance throughout all of this, as safe a distance as is possible when you live in the same house. Nevertheless, she has started to have some symptoms, so far minor. I am told that I am not contagious. 

So, it’s safe to say that I didn’t have “Get a viral lung infection and cough for nine days” on my bingo card for the month of September…but here we are. I am reminded of the very real truth of that corny formulation that I’ve heard older people say over the years. Your health really is your wealth.

My Artificial Intelligence Problem

 I have not yet downloaded Meta AI. I have never once used ChatGPT. This places me very much on the outside looking in at the burgeoning artificial intelligence craze taking over the world. My wife has used this technology many times with great success, once when the cupboard was a bit bare she simply took a picture of several random ingredients she had on hand and asked ChatGPT what kind of meal she could make out of them. The result was delicious! I have also many other friends who have embraced AI, even one of the pastors at my church admitted to using it to clarify a point in a sermon. This technology has the look and feel of something that is inevitable, the sort of thing that in five years people will wonder how we ever got along without. I am not at all blind to the many benefits of AI especially in the area of medical research and high end computing. My problem is basically with the name we have given it—artificial intelligence. There is nothing at all artificial about intelligence. Its creation comes from real intelligence culled from several thousands of years of human discovery, fed into a new shiny machine. But there’s another thing about AI that gives me pause.

I am a writer. Well, not a real writer who does it for a living, but one for whom writing has been my number one hobby and closest friend for over fifty years. I believe that if you have written seven novels, twenty-five short stories and over three thousand blog posts during your life, you’re entitled to call yourself a writer. The question posed by AI for a writer is a simple one—could I submit a difficult chapter of a story I’m trying to write into an artifical intelligence program and ask it to clean up any inconsistencies with grammar or plot construction? From everything I’ve come to understand about this technology the answer is YES. Not only can it be done but it can be done in milliseconds instead of the months it might take me to work the thing out. But at that point, would it still be rightfully considered my work?

Some might say, isn’t this the same thing an editor would do? No, an editor would present problems with plot or sentence formation or dialogue to me and ask me to do a rewrite. 

But, the story would still be mine, even after the AI rewrite, so what’s the big deal?

Well, I think there’s a huge deal. No, a post-AI version of my story is no longer my story in any authentic way. I am not here suggesting that my version would be better, in fact I’m quite sure that AI could produce much smoother prose than I can since it has access to practically every word of fiction every written—and I don’t.

The joy of writing, the thing that makes it so damn fulfilling is the mystery of creating something from nothing. Every story I have ever written began as a random thought, a flash of memory, a burst of inspiration—what if?? I believe this is how it is with the creation of all kinds of art, especially music. Do we really want to turn over this process to machines? I would rather read a flawed book written by a fellow human being than a perfectly crafted one produced by a computer program. I would rather listen to a melody that sprang from the depths of the human soul than one that was crafted by a finely tuned algorithm who never felt pain, loss or joy.

 

What Would YOU Do?

 We had planned to spend a few days with our grandson this past week. It had been over 5 weeks since we last saw him and that was simply unacceptable. Two days before we were to head down to Columbia we got a text from Kaitlin that Silas had come down with big time nasal congestion after a night of coughing and was heading to the doctor’s office where she was told that he had the croup. As a bonus, Kaitlin was in the process of losing her voice. We had to make a decision. After maybe two minutes’ deliberation Pam sent Kaitlin the following text:

Me in the 1980’s: Mom, Kaitlin’s throwing up and Patrick has strep throat and a fever of 104.

Nana: No worries! Grandad and I will be there in an hour.

Of course we went down. This morning I feel like crap. I’ve got a headache, sore throat and runny nose. A crew is about to show up at my house to begin painting the exterior trim work. I’ve got a dentist appointment at 11:00 which I don’t know what to do with considering my present status. 

If I had it to do over would I still have voluntarily spent three days with a sick little boy?

Yes. A thousand times…yes.

Grandparents Vs. Car Seats

 I have long been of the opinion that not every innovation that is thrust upon us represents progress. No where is this more true than in the area of cutting edge children’s safety protocols. Pam and I just got back in town after spending several days taking care of our little grandson. While there our experience with several of these new safety innovations brought to mind that wonderful old Ella Fitzgerald song, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.

First of all there’s the question of car seats.

The business of securing a small child securely in a two ton vehicle as it barrels down the highway at 70 mph is an obviously important task. But the current level of complexity associated with these devices cannot in any cogent way be considered an improvement over the car seats of 30 years ago. For one thing, the human species has not yet evolved the third hand necessary to properly secure a child into the sixteen-point Rube-Goldberg system of engineering on display in current models. 

When I was a young father, the car seats we had were state of the art for that era which meant there was a big V-shaped harness that draped over the child after he had been placed in the seat. There was one big hook on the end of this V-shaped strap that clicked neatly into a metal clip close to the child’s crotch. Once secured the straps fell perfectly down from the kid’s shoulders, across his chest, to said crotch. The entire securing process—assuming the child wasn’t in full meltdown mode because I refused to buy her ice cream—took all of 15 seconds start to finish. 

What Pam and I encountered this weekend was the equivalent of asking a parent (or grandparent in this case) to perform advanced algebra without a calculator, while it was 95 degrees out with 100% humidity and also while your grandchild had the croup. The new regime consists of 6 different straps that must be secured to each other. Unfortunately all six of these straps happen to be located exactly where you just placed your wiggly grandchild after sitting him in the car seat. Job one is to fish all six straps out from behind a sitting child who has no insensitive to help in any way. Once all six are successfully yanked out from his nether regions you can begin the complicated system of attaching all six straps to the multi-point hooks to be found not in or around the crotch area but instead at the child’s belly button. Unfortunately getting all six to meet at this agreed upon location at the same time is next to impossible. When we were experiencing this dilemma I had just started the car and turned the air conditioner on full blast which had the effect of lowering the temperature in the back seat approximately 5 degrees …from 95 to 90…while Pam was reaching exasperation Level DefCom 5. “Its so tight!! I can’t get them to snap into place!! Even if I do, the poor child won’t be able to breathe! This is ridiculous!!!”

I unhooked my seat belt—for no discernible reason because I had no expertise to bring to bear on such a project—but I thought maybe the unclicking sound might demonstrate a heightened level of concern on my part for what she was going through back there. I should point out that during this exasperating ordeal our grandson was as good as gold, although he would have been within his rights to have been throwing the mother of all tantrums. Finally Pam remembered that there was a special button hidden in the seat under the cloth lining which when reached with that third hand I mentioned earlier lived up to its official name in the owners manual of this seat-o-pain—-the magic button. She dug around blindly under the padding of the seat, finally secured the button just about the time that the blood flow was being cut off from her hand and just like that the entire apparatus loosened, allowing her to make the 6 point click. I should point out that instead of 15 seconds, this procedure took ten minutes—if you don’t count the three years it took off of our lives.

Now…it’s true that if we had gotten in an accident, our entire car might have been demolished but that kid, in that seat was going nowhere, my friends. Of course, good luck to the policeman, or fireman responsible for removing him from the car. Would they know how to find the magic button??

Of course, I could also tell you about the lengths parents are being asked to go to secure their little ones in their high chairs—which I feel compelled to add are not hurdling down the highway at 70 mph. But that discussion will have to wait for another day.

Suffice it to say that while the Olympian distortions required to manhandle these safety features might be perfectly suited to young parents with their nimble, arthritis-free joints, it plays hell with us grandparents! But, we’re doing the best we can…and waiting for that third hand.

The Lost Art of Going to the Movies

 When I was an extremely awkward teenager growing up in Hanover County one of the most prominent forms of social cohesion and assimilation was to be found at…the movies. Except for the days when you played ball, Friday and Saturday nights belonged to a collection of movie theaters scattered around Ashland and Richmond. These were the places where dates happened. Two tickets with popcorn and a fountain drink ran you around $6.

We would eagerly await the green section’s arrival in Friday’s News Leader, where all the showtimes and movie reviews were listed. It wasn’t a question of if you were going to the pictures, it was only a question of which one and with whom.

There was the Ashland Theater which had the advantage of being down the street from Mayberry’s Ice cream and close to my home in Elmont. But if you wanted to go where the action was that would mean driving into Richmond. The wider variety of movie joints meant a better selection. There was Broad Street Cinema, Ridge Cinema, Willow Lawn and the Byrd Theater. But my go-to place was the Westhampton which had the even greater advantage of being right next door to Phil’s Continental Lounge, which sounds much more high class than it actually was. However you could get the best club sandwich in Richmond for less than 3 bucks.

What I remember the most about the movie experience back then was the almost complete absence of annoying ads before the movie started. There would normally be maybe three movie previews and if you were lucky a hilarious cartoon. But that was it.

Today, everything has changed. The overwhelming majority of movies Pam and I have seen over the past decade or so have been enjoyed from the privacy and comfort of our sofa. The popcorn is way cheaper and the floor isn’t sticky.

If you put a gun to my head at this moment and asked me to name five movies that have been released in the past year I couldn’t do it. The only one that comes to mind is The Odyssey, and the only reason I know about that one is the fact that it has managed to do something that hardly any film does these days—it has penetrated the zeitgeist, becoming part of the interminable culture wars of our time. Still…you couldn’t pay me enough money to go to one of our cineplexes to watch the thing. Too much goo on the floors, confiscatory concession prices and annoying movie-goers on their cellphones. Besides, in a couple months I can watch it at home.

But we have lost something along the way, the shared experience of the cinematic moment, the magic of the big screen…and I miss it terribly, just not enough to fork over fifty bucks to bring it back.

Although this morning I saw a preview online of a movie due to be released November 2nd…a biopic about somebody other than a pop musician—“Jimmy”, the story of Jimmy Stewart and his rise to stardom and his decision to serve his country in WWII, not as a publicity prop but as a bomber pilot over Nazi Germany. 

For this…I will risk sticky shoes.